


Never

by aratheli



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Scenes, IMO, The Promised Day, man I mean it would have been cool to see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 23:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16129067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aratheli/pseuds/aratheli
Summary: If The Promised Day would have gone differently.  Wrath and Oliver Armstrong fight to the death.





	Never

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired a bit by Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Enjoy!

As soon as he turned to face his opponent, he snickered viciously.  “I'm supposed to fight you. Of course.”

 

Olivier scowled, wiped the blood from her eye and grabbed a hair tie from her pocket.  Fighting Sloth had been nothing but child’s play, and she knew that this battle could cost her much more than some blood; her life was at stake.

 

But her country, too.  That came first. No way was she about to give up her throne to its demonic ruler.

 

“I haven't seen you with your hair up in a long time,” Wrath remarked, spitting blood. “Not since you were a lieutenant. Need both eyes to see me, huh?”

 

Olivier took her sword holster out from its place beside her hip, and unhitched the strap.  

Wrath squinted.  “You're taking this too seriously.”

 

They were about five feet apart.  Olivier could feel her heartbeat flutter a bit when she saw how many swords he had compared to her single one, but she knew his were trash to the heirloom in her possession.  She exhaled sharply, hands tightening around the sheith.

 

“Not talking today.  Interesting.” 

 

“With all due respect, sir, I don't want to talk in case I miss the chance to hear you croak.”

 

“'Sir’? We’re well past that now,  _ general _ ,” he sneered.  

 

Olivier waited a beat before she rapidly threw her sword’s cover to the ground and assumed an  _ en garde _ position.  Wrath did much the same, but he held two swords in one hand, acting as if they were together.  He also took a look at the sword Olivier had pointed high in the air, the heirloom of the Armstrong family, and grinned.

 

Olivier looked at her sword and back in confusion.

 

He struck first, swiping down and lounging through to her head, where she blocked it just barely with her sword pressed firmly against her chest in defence.  Wrath smacked the sword against hers, causing her to double back and nearly trip over her feet. He launched himself at her again, this time slicing directly towards her less-used eye, as if that was a weak point.  Olivier took this tip and did the same, taking a swing at his tattoo, hoping it was blind.

 

It was not; he took advantage of her move and defended it so, scraping her blade and pushing back on it, as to knock her off balance again.  She really had lost too much blood, it seemed. Her balance was horrible. 

 

Wrath swung at her multiple times with vigor, making her near the end of their fighting space, until she decided to offend.  Her sword struck back until they regained footing in the centre of the broken room, and she made an attempt to grab the Fuhrer’s swords from him.  It was in vain, as he took her wrist and pulled her closer, slicing at her collarbone. Olivier growled at the pain, but more rather at the inconvenience of losing more blood, and kicked him in the stomach.  They both staggered backwards. 

 

Wrath unbuckled his swords from each other and wielded both now, one in each hand.  He went on the offensive again, attacking Olivier with double the speed, double the anger. She defended until her heirloom became stuck in between the two of Wrath’s swords, where he exed them downwards and caused her to spin around and land with her head on the pavement.  Vision blurry, world hazing, Olivier could only look up in time before Wrath made another curve at her neck, and her sword came up just in time to cut against him. She pulled herself up, gait wide, and tried to focus on his rapidly approaching form.

 

She chose to run in the opposite direction towards the still barely-intact wall, put a foot down on it and spun to face him, chopping down so hard it cracked both swords in half.  When she landed and looked his way again, he had thrown down the useless handles and drew one more. 

 

He still seemed to aim at her newly revealed eye, stabbing for it every chance he could get, Olivier dodging it best she could.  At one point in the fight, she slipped slightly on hair of hers that had fallen to the floor after being cut. 

 

She made the mistake of looking down to catch her footing, but her blade remained high, and Wrath jumped to destabilise her again with a smack of the sword.

 

Olivier released a frustrated shout and reeled again, followed quickly by the man, where defended until she was flat against the wall.  He cut at her deviously, slicing up the wall behind her as she squirmed until she found an opening and dove out. Wrath turned around and clipped downwards, right for the centre of her head. 

 

She slid out of he way and grabbed the tip of his sword with her bare hand, splintered his sword in half, and threw the bit on the ground.  Great. Now her hand needed stitching.

 

He backed away and pulled out another; his last one.  

 

She exhaled and attacked, aiming high and low, hoping  _ something _ will get him to open up and be vulnerable.  In the middle of it all, his sword suddenly snapped, and she felt the shard scrape her ear as it fell.  As he threw the last piece of sword he had left at her, she ducked and raised a hand to her ear, and could feel only warm blood oozing from where it had been.  

 

“I forget how tough you are, Armstrong,” he said calmly.  “Why, none of my men could handle your strength.”

 

She wanted to snip back, but something told her not to.  

 

Wrath jumped and clung onto a large steel rod poking out of its safe place in the concrete, pulled it free and landed with his new weapon of choice.  Without giving her time to react, he swung and hit her blade with a spark, sending her flying back, gasping for the wind that was just knocked out of her.  The rod had a nice fresh divet in it, but that didn’t deter the Fuhrer from striking again. 

 

Olivier regained what little consciousness she had left in time to see the rod coming down like lightning, and she rolled to be saved from the blow that cracked the pavement where she had been.  Before she could get up again, he made another move in a similar fashion, splitting the tiles and popping them out of their sequence. Every swing he made after that sent her sword sparking with the impact.  She could only defend. 

 

She was collectively terrified and excited by the fact that this could be the end.  The end of her, or the end of him. 

 

She began to attack with a series of strikes with a never-ending pivot, sending her brain twirling but it built speed and power, and as she jumped to yell and strike again, she sliced the rod clean apart.

 

The fuhrer stopped, glanced at his defeated weapon, and back at her.  She was shaking, but she held up her heirloom and traced the rose carvings in the blade with fascination.

 

Wrath’s eyes narrowed, and he tossed the rod half to the side and stood still.  “Don’t touch that,” he commanded, only to have her look at him for a second. “I know you stole it.”

 

She finally gave him her stare, and smirked.  “So what if I did?”

 

He thought for a moment.  “How old were you?”

 

“Fifteen.”

 

“Did you start training then?”

 

“Training myself, yes.”

 

He laughed wickedly.  “Who would’ve thought, a spoiled, bratty bitch would end up one of the toughest and most well-disciplined dogs of the military?”

 

“No, I’m no dog,” she countered. 

 

“Right, right,” he settled.  “A bear. Momma Bear is more fitting.”

 

She huffed, sword still drawn.

 

“And if I were to kill Momma Bear--” he whipped out a small pocket knife from his back pocket and placed it against her jugular, making her short of breath, “--what would happen to her cubs?”

 

They were inches apart.  She regained her breathing, but just enough to ask one question. “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

 

He laughed again.  “I’m not going to kill you.  You’re too precious, my dear girl.”

 

His hand came clean off.

 

* * *

 

“General Armstrong, how good to see you,” Riza Hawkeye began formally, but she knew that it wouldn’t last.  Her closing of the impromptu hospital door proved it. 

 

“Oh, Hawkeye.”  Olivier didn’t open her eyes, but merely sighed relief and placed her hand on her stomach.  “At least it’s not Mustang.”

 

“You could call him Roy, you know,” she muttered, pulling a chair up next to the superior woman’s hospital bed.  Riza still had on her hospital gown herself, IV pole in tow.

 

“Nah,” Olivier seemed amused, laughing slightly, but then grimacing as her broken ribs didn’t allow her to enjoy such humour.  “I prefer not to.”

 

Riza smiled.  “He asks if you’re doing okay.”

 

“Despite the blood loss, ear loss, hair loss…” she trailed off, as she almost said soldier loss, and decided to save it.  Her attitude changed. “Doing  _ great _ .”

 

“I hear you hit your head pretty hard several times.  Do you remember what happened?”

 

“After Sloth, I had a sword fight with Bradley.  After he called me a girl, and I sliced his hand off, it was pretty easy stabbing the geizer who had no weapons left.”  She had left out the part where she stabbed him at least twenty times after that in revenge of Buccaneer, but Olivier figured that bit was best left unsaid and undiscovered.  “Then I collapsed. Now I’m here.”

 

Riza was silent for a moment, but she inhaled sharply and placed a hand on the bed’s rail.  “I have something for you.”

 

The chair squeaked when she got up, and Olivier finally opened her eyes to see the Lieutenant gathering up papers from the dresser in the centre of the room.  Olivier desperately wanted to straighten and see what the deal was, even though she had a good idea, but her back and ribs refrained her. 

 

“Captain Buccaneer had no family left alive…”

 

“Hawkeye--”

 

“...he left his entire will to you.”

 

Oh.

 

Riza was looking at her now, tears glistening in the sunlight, and all Olivier could do was stare at the ceiling.  The blank walls seemed to cave in then, tightening around her lungs and hugging her throat, until there was nothing she could do but bite her lip and quiver.  She shut her eyes again, this time too tightly, and it burned.

 

“General...I’m so sorry.  I know you two were close.”

 

Olivier found the energy to exhale a breath she didn’t know she was keeping in, and with it came the flow of tears she didn’t know she had left in her.  

 

“--came to check on my favourite General!”  That was Roy’s voice, bursting in the door. “How’s--”  She could assume he took the hint by now, as he stopped so suddenly and his footsteps did too.  He began in a much smaller voice, “What--”

 

“Get out, both of you.”

 

“Olivier, please.”  Riza spoke, choking.  “I know you want to be alone, but--”

 

“Get out!” she shouted through gritted teeth, still clenching her entire body, hoping by force the tears would stop.  The pain grew more intense, but she needed to feel something other than the guilt. 

 

“Olivier,” Riza tried again.  “I need to read you the rest of the reports.”

 

The general covered her face in shame, crying endlessly, knowing it was only about the get worse.

 

Papers shuffled.  “Soldiers from Fort Briggs killed or missing in action: Lieutenant Abel, Officer Berger, Officer Goldschmidt, Lieutenant Forney, Colonel Beyer, Officer Dunji, Officer Faun, Colonel Maas…”

 

The names read on and on.  Olivier knew each one of them well, and she felt the loss deep in her bones.  Her cries became more and more raw, louder and louder. She felt the hospital stop and watch with her shrieks of desperation, knowing for sure she would not get some of them back.  

 

Riza stopped reading, and Olivier felt a hand on her face.

 

“Things won’t be the same,” Riza stated quietly.  “Never.”

 

“No,” Olivier whimpered behind her hands.  “Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this started and ended so badly (and in general, it just being a piece of trash), but I had to get this idea out. What happened to the details that people know about that day? Who knows, I haven't watched FMAB in so long lol. But it's still an inspiration. Thank you for reading!


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